


Charmed

by theoncomingwolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, other characters to be added probably and rating may change but likely only to T
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoncomingwolf/pseuds/theoncomingwolf
Summary: Multichapter Emily / Lena - First meeting and early dates.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Different chapters will feature switched POVs, but never of the same event; will go chronologically through Emily and Lena's first meeting and early dating life. Will feature various characters but none very prominently and will heavily focus on the Lenily relationship.

Emily stretches her legs out underneath the table, pressing her heels to the ground to stretch her calves. She wiggles further in her seat, uncomfortable in the tight black dress she had donned for dinner with a couple of her friends.

She looks cute, she reasons, but she’s not sure if it’s worth the discomfort of the too-tight material and the constant fear that essential-to-hide parts of her body are going to pop out of their shoddy casing. Also, it’s cold.

“It really is packed in here,” Karen points out, glancing towards the back doors of the restaurant, where people are constantly milling around, “I’m glad I got a reservation.”

It’s a little restaurant in a less crowded edge of London, so it’s usually got free tables, even on a Saturday.

“Why are they hanging around there?” Emily grumbles, “they’re letting all the cold air in.”

“You don’t think there’s anyone famous, do you?” Mariam asks, “There’s a coupl’a burly blokes pointing people away every once in a while.”

“You figure that one out,” Emily says, standing to head in the other direction, “I’m going to the loo...”

Emily rubs her arms, hoping it’s warmer in the toilets as she picks her way through the crowded restaurant.

It is, with a solid door separating the sinks and stalls from the drafty interior of the restaurant; once a stall opens up she spends a little more time than necessary sitting in the warm room, hoping her food might be ready by the time she comes back. After a while she feels guilty about the idea of a queue forming and stands, pulling up her pants and adjusting her dress down to cover as much as it can.

There’s no queue after all when she steps out of the stall towards the sinks. Emily chooses the hot tap over the cold, and does the best job of washing her hands as she can without scalding herself, before adjusting her dress once again in the mirror to ensure her bra doesn’t poke out too much on the front or sides of the dress.

The door swings open to her left; Emily takes a quick look to gauge how rude it is to continue adjusting her cleavage in front of them, while blocking the entire sink.

She freezes when she locks eyes with a very recognizable woman; she supposes that solves the mystery of people constantly trying to get a look outside.

“Heya,” Tracer greets, shooting her a friendly grin.

“Hullo,” Emily replies quietly, hands still over her breasts.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment; Emily breaks eye contact first, pivoting quickly towards the mirror, then drops her hands to the sink as she realizes what she’s still doing.

Tracer doesn’t move, and Emily can see her still looking in her direction for a moment until a stall opens to her left and she quickly moves into the stall Emily came out of before she’s spotted.

Emily steps away from the sink, wondering how long she can adjust her dress without it becoming obvious that she’s waiting for another chance to talk to the Overwatch agent. She decides any amount of time is too much, and leaves the room, weaving her way through the crowd and back to her table.

Their food is here, but neither of her friends.

Emily sits, unwrapping her silverware and placing her napkin on her lap. She wonders if it’s rude to start eating, or if the rudeness of her friends disappearing means she can do as she likes.

She glances in the general direction of the toilets again, inadvertently waiting for her friends as she ignores her food in favor of catching another glance at a woman she greatly respects.

“Em!” Karen squeals, causing her to flinch in surprise, “we found out what famous _people_ are here!”

“Tracer walked right past us as the waiter was bringing our food!” Mariam laughs, “there’s several of them outside- Reinhardt Wilhelm, Torbjorn Lindholm, Angela Ziegler, Jesse McCree...”

“I saw Tracer in the loo,” Emily says, pointing in the direction of her gaze.

“No way!” Karen swings into her seat.

Sure enough, a rather conspicuous blue light gives away the position of the Overwatch agent making her way towards the back doors. She’s moving quickly, glancing around through the restaurant but not pausing to acknowledge any of the people looking at her. One of her quick glances eventually lands on their table and she stops looking around, turning her head as she passes to shoot another smile in Emily’s direction.

Caught up in the moment, they’re both pretty surprised when Tracer smacks into the waiter coming through the back doors.

“Sorry,” she squeaks, before disappearing in an embarrassed blue blur.

Some mixed giggles and oohs and ahs fill the room behind her, increasing the noisy volume of the restaurant.

“What the fuck,” Karen says, hitting Emily’s arm, “she was looking right at you!”

“Could have been any of us,” Emily says, blushing.

“No, I think she was looking at you,” Mariam agrees, as Karen continues, “ _She’s_ gay!”

“Uh,” Emily blushes harder, squinting at Karen to discern her point.

“You’re gay!” Karen clarifies.

Mariam makes the same face back at Karen.

“She should ask her out,” Karen says.

Emily takes a bite of her food, shaking her head.

“She can’t just ask her out,” Mariam argues.

“Sure she can!” Karen says.

Emily continues to eat as her friends play the roles of devil and angel on her shoulder and bring up the reasons why she should and shouldn’t get up and try and give Tracer, world famous Overwatch agent, her number.

Tracer looked totally hot for her; she was probably being friendly; what’s the harm in asking; she’s probably too busy to date; God I’m not suggesting Emily _date_ her; Karen!; she’s totally hot for you; she probably gets numbers all the time; what’s one more; those security guards won’t let anyone near the table; just make sure she sees you hand the number to one of the guards; what if the guard calls haha; write “Tracer” on it, duh.

As dinner comes to a close and their final receipts come back to them, Karen digs around in her purse, tearing a blank piece of paper from a notepad and sliding it over with a pen from their bills.

Emily slowly slides it closer to herself, picking up the pen and glancing towards Mariam in embarrassment, who shrugs.

“I’m not saying I’ll do it,” Emily says.

She writes her first name, puts “redhead” in parentheses and resists the urge to clarify, “from the loo”, then writes her phone number, with a little heart. She almost scratches out the heart, but that would be even sillier than leaving it, so she folds the paper shut and writes “Tracer” on both sides.

She’s tempted to write the woman’s first name, “Lena” instead, but recalls seeing somewhere that she prefers to be called by her callsign by people who have never actually met her. God, she knows too much about this woman going into this.

“Isn’t it creepy?” Emily says, “I know much more about her than she does about me... not that I’m seeking out the information or anything...”

“Then tell her about you,” Karen says, “when she calls you.”

She stands from her chair, prodding Emily from her own, and walks her in the direction of the outside doors. Emily glances back at Mariam, who laughs.

They walk outside, where it is as cold as balls, Emily thinks, pulling down the edge of her dress once more. They’re watched the whole time by a burly man in a sharp, black suit, who stops them before the door has time to shut behind them; she wonders why they have a guard detail for a handful of the most skilled soldiers in the world. Any single person at the table, with the exception of Dr. Ziegler, she assumes, could take out their own guard detail single-handedly.

“You really can’t be out here, ma’am,” he says, directly to Karen, and Emily realizes they probably already had this conversation when Emily had come back from the loo and she and Mariam were gone.

Emily hopes Karen will stall for a moment and cranes her head to try and spot Tracer once more.

She’s there, with several other agents, as Karen had said, but she’s facing away from the doors, which will make her plan a little harder if they’re removed before she sees her. Emily’s not confident that Tracer will even want her number, but she’s sure if she gives it to the guard without her seeing then there’s no chance she’s even going to know about it.

Tracer doesn’t see her, but Jesse McCree does, and after a moment of eye contact he laughs, reaching across the table to thump Tracer on the shoulder. Tracer turns around as the guard puts a hand on Emily’s shoulder to physically turn her around and nudge her back inside.

Well, Emily thinks, she’s embarrassed herself already, so she may as well follow through. She pulls away from the guard just enough to make eye contact with Tracer and wave her little slip of paper in her direction, then hands the slip to the guard and ducks her head, quickly slinking back through the doors and to her table. She's certain she hears laughter behind her.

Karen pokes her in the sides, laughing words of encouragement as they swing by the table to collect Emily’s purse and Mariam.

“Nice one!” Karen says.

“She’s not going to call me,” Emily says, “but what’s the harm, I guess...”

“That cowboy pointed you out to her,” Karen points out, “she probably mentioned that she smacked into the waiter because she was distracted by a hot ginger.”

“Oh shut up,” Emily says, smiling, as she crowds closer to Mariam for warmth.

The walk to Karen’s car is thankfully not too long, and she slips into the back as soon as the door’s unlocked, hissing as Karen’s damn fancy leather seats suck all the warmth out of her arse. Emily takes her phone out of her purse as Karen starts the car, biting her lip at the new message notification.

 **New Number:** Hello :) :) :)

 **New Number:** This is Tracer!

 **New Number:** Please don’t doxx me!!!

Emily gawks at her phone, mechanically saving the contact as she thinks of how to reply; she saves it simply as “Lena” out of respect for the no-doxxing comment, in case anyone should see who she’s texting. Her leg bobs wildly, against her will, knocking against Karen’s seat in front of her in the small car.

“She uh,” Emily mumbles, raising her voice to be heard over the radio, “texted me? What the hell do I say?”

“She WHAT?” Karen whips her head around to try to see Emily behind her, causing her two passengers to simultaneously scold her for looking away from the road.

Emily holds her phone close to her chest, afraid one of them will get their hands on it if she’s not careful, and put words in her mouth. And by one of them, she means Karen, who’s already made it clear that she thinks the most Emily’s going to get out of this is a one night hook-up. Not that she’d complain...

“Oh my god, should I drive you anywhere?” Karen asks.

“Shut up,” Emily laughs, mortified; she’s perfectly fine with the idea of meeting up with a girl for some fun, but the idea of women she works with knowing about it is too much for her.

She supposes they are her friends, and over time she’ll relax as much around them as she did with her university friends, but she’s not quite there yet.

“Tell her thank you for getting back to you so fast,” Mariam says, “that’s very classy of her.”

“Her window’s closing,” Karen says, ruining the implication of it being classy.

 **Emily:** This is Emily. Thank you for getting back to me so fast.

She waits a moment before she gets a ping back.

 **Lena:** NP! My friends were making fun of me for texting you so fast hehehe

“What’s it say!”

“Her friends laughed at her for texting back so quickly,” Emily says, “how do I continue?”

Emily contemplates whether to invite Tracer over now or if that’s too forward. She’s honestly not sure what the woman wants from her. She hears her friends’ suggestions and once again decides to listen to Mariam.

 **Emily** : You want to do something together? I’m not sure how busy your schedule is, but I imagine very.

 **Lena:** I’m not allowed to disclose when I’m leaving London or coming back or anything haha

 **Lena:** But! I just ate and so did you and it’s public knowledge I’ve got an event on monday so I’ll be in town then! Maybe after that ends I can buy you dinner? What do you like other than clearly Italian

“She asked me to dinner...” Emily squeaks.

 **Emily:** That sounds great! I’m good with whatever. :)

 **Lena:** Is Chinese okay?

 **Emily:** Sure!

 **Lena:** Not to invite myself into your flat or anything

 **Lena:** But if I picked it up and came over then people would be less likely to bother us during our meal

 **Lena:** I promise I’m not just trying to invite myself into your flat

Emily fails to mention the location of their dinner to her friends, summarizing that they’re going to have Chinese to quell their curiosity.

 **Emily** : No worries; that sounds fun.

She texts Tracer- Tracer!- her address, receiving some smiley emojis from the woman in return. She lets the conversation end there, closing her texting app and turning her phone over in her hands on her lap.

“Please, please don’t tell anyone about this,” Emily asks, hesitant for any more of her coworkers to know who she's having dinner with.

Karen sighs dejectedly, and Mariam gives her two thumbs up.


	2. First Date P1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Femslash February!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Food CW, if anyone needs it.

Monday passes very slowly, with a lot of time spent by Karen’s desk, quietly hashing out what she’s going to wear and what they’re going to do. She’s even less inclined to have this conversation  _ at  _ work, but relaxes when they go out to lunch, and tells Karen she’s really up for whatever. She can’t imagine this is more than a one-date kind of date, but Tracer’s hot and she’s not exactly opposed to the idea.

Emily leaves work a half-hour early and picks up some snacks on her way home in case her guest wants anything other than Chinese food, coffee, or tea.

She gets another text while she’s at the store.

**Lena:** Sorry to leave you hanging on the time!! I just got out!!

**Lena:** I can be there in an hour I think

**Lena:** I still have to change and then pick up the food but... I’m very fast :) :) :)

**Emily:** No worries... see you soon

Emily shoves her phone in her pocket, quickening her pace. She tosses strawberries, jaffa cakes, wine, beer, crackers, cheese, and tea biscuits into her trolley before hurriedly checking out and running out of the store.

She arrives at her flat half an hour after she gets Tracer’s text. 

She’d asked her uni friends what to wear to a date with this cute, butch girl she’d met- without giving away too many of the details- and got back some suggestions from things they’d seen her wear.

Emily changes out of her work clothes, ending up in a tight, light blue t-shirt, a light black blazer,  dark skinny jeans, and ditches their shoe suggestions in favor of walking around in socks since she’s home. She stares at her hair for a while before caving in to her friends’ suggestion that she put it up in a bun. She re-touches her eye makeup and redoes her lips with red chapstick instead of staining lipstick.

Once dressed, she spends the remainder of her free time trying different earrings and necklaces until she’s as satisfied as she’s going to be with her appearance. An hour past Tracer’s text, Emily sits on the edge of one of her chairs, wondering too late if her studio flat is really the best place to have a date. Her bed is just... Right There, and she doesn’t even have a couch. There’s a little table for them to sit at by the kitchen, but not a lot of other room to do anything, and if they want to stream a movie the only place to see the TV is from her bed. 

Emily is standing to pour a couple of waters to give herself something to do when there’s a series of rapid knocks at the door.

The sharp image of the above-door camera, embedded in her wall as a constant stream, reveals messy short brown hair; Tracer’s got her head down, concealing her face, and holds a bulging brown paper bag over the glowing blue light of her accelerator.

The deadbolt slides out with a quiet whine, and Emily opens the door with a soft greeting. 

Accelerator aside, she’s dressed completely differently than Emily had ever seen her on TV; out of her blue Overwatch uniform, Tracer is wearing a brown pilot’s jacket, skinny black jeans, and pink trainers.

She’s quite short, Emily notes, merrily. 

“Oh good, right address,” Tracer laughs, putting her rather large bag down and holding her hand out in introduction, “I’m Lena.”

“Yeah,” Emily laughs, “Emily. Do you want a hand with that?”

Expecting Lena to say no, she holds the door open wider and steps away before she can answer, giving her room to enter. It’s a surreal moment, inviting famous Overwatch agent Lena Oxton into her flat, but Emily honestly already feels nervous enough on every date she’s ever had that it kind of passes surreal and loops back around to normal. 

“Nope, I’m good,” Lena says, crouching all the way down to pick up the bag without knocking it against her accelerator, “it’s very nice to meet you, Aim-ily, are you Scottish?” 

“Date canceled?” she jokes, laughing at the way Lena imitates her pronunciation.

“No!” Lena giggles, bending over a little over the bag, “It’s cute! I hadn’t realized.” 

She sets it down on the table, tearing it open and laying the contents out; there’s so much of it and Emily’s table is so small that she’s having to stack things.

“When did you move to London?” Lena asks, opening each of Emily’s cabinets in quick succession until she finds some bowls.

“I, uh, about 5 months ago,” Emily says, stepping forward to help her, “for work.”

She begins to move the boxes over to the counter, freeing up room for them to eat; Lena sidesteps her without hesitation, hand brushing lightly over her back to announce her presence and avoid a collision. Emily watches her pass out of her peripherals, wishing she’d come so close once more. 

“What do you do?” Lena asks, opening Emily’s fridge next; she shuts it after a second and takes a beer from above the fridge with a questioning look on her face.

“Yes, take it; grab me one too,” Emily says, peeking into some of the boxes she’s moved, “I do... Finance... like accounting but a little more high level... It’s- it sounds boring but it’s not bad if you like math and statistics.”

“I do not,” Lena giggles, opening a couple of drawers and grabbing a bottle opener, “sorry I’m going through all your shit... I bet it pays well though?”

Emily shrugs; it pays pretty well for the level she’s at, and she likes her job most of the time, but she thinks it’s rude to brag about her salary and probably boring to talk about the work in too much detail.

“Sorry there’s so much food!” Lena says, watching Emily pick through each of the choices, “Commander Morrison wanted to come with me when he heard I was going to this restaurant, and then I told him I was going on a date, so he ordered me a bunch of food and bought it himself...”

Jack Morrison bought their food. Alright. 

“It all looks great though, and you can keep the leftovers if you want,” Lena says, while Emily’s head is still spinning. 

Jack Morrison, head of Overwatch, bought her dinner. Tracer, rising star of Overwatch, brought her dinner. Tracer, ex-pilot, current superhero, is in her apartment and could conceivably kiss her tonight; if she doesn’t blow it.

The general nervousness she has at first dates vanishes, replaced by the crushing terror of having a date with Tracer. 

Lena finally stops exploring her kitchen and sits, a beer, a bowl of wonton soup with some dumplings dropped in it, a bowl of spicy chicken lo mein, and a small plate of fried rice laid out in front of her. She pops a dumpling in her mouth with a pair of chopsticks while Emily is still getting her food. A little voice in Emily’s head, which sounds a lot like her mother, notes that it’s rude to start eating before your date sits, but it takes the pressure off hurrying to join her, so Emily doesn’t really care. 

She grabs some dumplings and lo mein in one bowl and slides into the opposite seat, watching Lena curiously as they eat. She’s got good posture, but she’s got to be all the way on the edge of her chair so her accelerator doesn’t knock up against the back. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, and tucked under the legs of the chair.

“Do you want to take that off?” Emily asks, hesitantly, “I promise not to touch it if you’d like to set it down wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Uhm... I’m alright for now, love, thank you.”

Emily nods, not pushing the issue.

“Sorry for the table size,” Emily says, “I bet when you suggested dinner here you weren’t expecting a shoe box.” 

Lena shakes her head, swallowing the half dumpling in her mouth without really chewing so she can speak. 

“No,” she starts, before the pain of the dumpling making its way clunkily through her organs catches up to her, “urgh...”

She pushes a hand under her accelerator to touch her chest, sliding back in her chair and dropping her head onto the table with a groan.

Emily giggles at the theatrics, breaking into a full laugh against her will as she struggles to ask if Lena is okay. 

Lena giggles, forehead still pressed against the table, a tuft of hair perilously close to taking a dip in her wonton soup.

Emily laughs harder, reaching weakly over to press a hand to Lena’s head and keep her hair out of her soup. She takes her hand away quickly, pulling the bowl towards her instead.

“I live in a dorm,” Lena says, a little breathily, as she sits up, “so I can’t really judge.”

“They don’t give you Overwatch agents a snazzy flat?” Emily wheezes.

“They give us money,” Lena says, “so I could buy a snazzy flat if I really wanted to, but I’m travelling all the time, so it’s not like I’d be home much... Also, I... grew up kind of poor, so I feel kind of uncomfortable spending money on somewhere to live when I can have it for free. I’ve mostly just been saving it.”

“That makes sense!”

The conversation almost lulls into an uncomfortable stretch of silence, but Lena casually picks it back up with inquiries into Emily’s life- her job, her siblings, where she grew up, what she liked to do for fun. She switches topics quickly, like she just wants a taste of an answer. Emily feels rather like she is being quizzed, and the rapid pace of questions with familiar answers helps her relax a bit. 

She tosses a couple back at Lena, but she already knows the answers to the basic questions like where she grew up. Every single person in the UK had probably watched the interview after King’s Row was saved, in which the young, ex-RAF Brit described the saving of her home turf. She’d also mentioned her parents dying in one of the violent riots that broke out as a result of human-omnic tension in London when she was a kid, so Emily knows enough to steer clear of that topic altogether.

She doesn’t like having such personal information on someone who had never told her about it. It feels like she’d been gossiping behind the woman’s back, and she almost wishes she had some similarly sad nugget of information to offer about herself in return.

Somewhere along the way, the conversation relaxes from surface-level small talk to actual stories back and forth about different times in their lives. They’re all light topics, boring at worst and funny at best, and Lena listens and laughs to each of them enough that Emily doesn’t feel so shy about sharing. 

On her third beer, Lena wiggles out of her accelerator, sliding out of her chair to walk across the room and place it gently on Emily’s bed, against the wall. She kicks her shoes off and flops down, laying flat on her back on top of the comforter. She sighs contentedly, too short to reach the pillow with her legs by the foot of the bed. Nothing about the pose strikes Emily as sexy or inviting, so she makes her way over without overthinking the situation too much.

She’d promised not to go near Lena’s accelerator, should she take it off, and there’s not much room to sit anywhere else with the way Lena’s laying, so she sits on the ground, leans against the nightstand, and ignores where the drawers are digging into her back.

“Comfy?” Emily teases.

“Yeah; that thing gets pretty heavy after a while,” Lena says, sighing, “and I’m full.”

“I bet,” Emily laughs, impressed that such a tiny woman could clear away so much food, “Tea always helps with that, I think, but I won’t blame you if you want to wait a bit.”

Lena turns her head, staring quietly into Emily’s face.

Close up, Emily can see she has freckles. They disappear in the harsh light of TV interviews and photographs, so she hadn’t really noticed before. They’re not dusted, numerous, like her own, but an infrequent smattering across her cheeks. Her hair is thick, and follows gravity’s pull somewhat as she lays down, allowing Emily to see that she’s got it cut very short on the sides of her head, as it is on the back. Two simple hoops are pierced into the top of left ear, and two silver studs on the bottom of each ear.

Emily finds herself unable to sustain so many seconds of silent eye contact, and looks down with a blush, wriggling in her spot against the drawer handles sticking into her back. 

“Oh, do you want to sit here too?” Lena asks, smiling unabashedly.

She sits up without using her arms, taking hold of her accelerator and moving it onto the pillow- atop the comforter- above her head so she can scoot against the wall. 

Emily lays sideways, facing her for a moment, before turning onto her back with another blush. The same blush, really. She looks away and hopes her face returns to a normal color soon.

“Thanks for having me over.”

The bed groans with a soft exhale as Lena repositions herself so she’s laying on her side. Her knees are bent just enough that they brush against the side of Emily’s leg. 

Emily turns her head up back towards the ceiling, watching Lena from the corner of her eye. She turns her leg so it presses more firmly against Lena’s knees. She’s admittedly a bit touch-starved, lonely from moving to a new place, with no girlfriend and only a couple friends she feels close enough to to touch here and then. 

Lena responds to her movement by lightly brushing her fingers against Emily’s arm It's like chess, each of them making strategic plays and awaiting the next move. Emily can read the signals well enough at this point and turns to face Lena, stopping just short of kissing her in case she wants to move away.

She doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving a review if you like! 
> 
> Getting it out there that this will stay a T rated fic. Not to say they won't do much more in chapters after this, but I won't be describing it in detail.


	3. First Date P2 With Smooches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was more smooching than I intended it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that reviewed!

Every last bit of Emily’s earlier bashfulness disappears as Tracer’s fingers tangle in her hair, pressing a hand gently to the back of her head as they kiss. Can’t have much of a clearer sign that she’s into this date.

She moves closer until their shoulders push against each other; with the slightest bit of resistance, Tracer starts to roll onto her back, moving the hand in Emily’s hair to an elbow around her neck and pulling the redhead on top of her. Emily nestles in at her side, pressed against her but still not completely on her lap, and minds that the top of her head doesn’t brush the glowing blue life support device on her pillow. 

She laughs involuntarily as Emily’s cold fingers rub against her stomach, making an apologetic noise for laughing during the kiss. Lena’s infectious laughter has Emily pulling away for a giggle, where she nestles her nose into Lena’s neck. She kisses the pulse-point there, under her jaw, and Lena stops giggling, tilting her head to encourage Emily to do it again. She kisses her neck all over, careful not to do it hard enough to leave a hickey. Lena’s fingers hold tightly onto the fabric of Emily’s blazer, pulling at it after a bit to get it off. 

She sits up as Emily leans away to pull it off behind her, placing a hand on her arm with a smile. 

“Hold on,” Lena says, “I’m feeling that tea now.”

She wiggles out from under Emily, grabbing her accelerator and rolling over to the kitchen as casually as if they had been still chatting at the table. Emily, dumbfounded and a fair amount frustrated, watches her silently as she plucks the kettle off the stove and holds it under the tap.

“Why in the hell do you not have an electric kettle? Lena scolds, jokingly, turning around with a wink that Emily can’t process well anymore. 

She replaces the kettle, flicks on the stove, and sticks her head through the straps of her accelerator, wiggling her shoulders to settle it. Lena keeps her back to Emily, tightening the straps on the sides, and stares towards the stove as the kettle begins to grumble. She doesn’t move except to drum her fingers against the cool metal of her chest, and watches as her fingers phase through the projected ring.

She snatches the kettle from the stove as soon as it starts to scream, setting it down on the cooler, adjacent spot.

Lena finds the cabinet with the tea and mugs and the drawer with the spoons on the first try, having evidently paid attention during her pre-dinner rifle through Emily’s kitchen. She takes a bag of English breakfast for herself, and glances over her shoulder for Emily’s choice.

“The same is fine,” Emily says; she wouldn’t mind a bit of caffeine if Lena’s staying, “in the... cat mug, with two sugars.”

Lena nods, complying.

Emily starts as she crosses the room in a flash of blue, sitting by her side in the time it takes her to blink.

“Oh- woah,” Emily stammers, a breathy laugh breaking from her chest as she tries to breathe out, “that’s wild to see in real life.”

Lena’s warm where she leans against Emily’s now bare arms. A shiver works its way down Emily’s spine as soft brown hair tickles her shoulder. Lena responds by inching closer, mistaking her movement for being cold, and reaches behind her to pull Emily’s black blazer into her hands and settle it carefully over her shoulders. Lena takes one of her hands in both of her own, slowly rubbing her fingers over her cold palms and knuckles, curling her fingers in with soft touches and kissing them as she gently squeezes to get the blood flowing. 

Emily offers the second hand with a bemused smile; Lena settles the first between her knees for warmth, far enough from her thighs to not be forward, and grip loose enough that if Emily wanted to slide her hand back it would be no trouble. She warms the second hand with exploring touches, as if she is feeling out the grooves and bones for reference, carefully separating her fingers and sliding her thumb over joints.

“Tea’s mashing,” she says, giving Emily back her hands, and blurs over to the other side of the room in an instant.

Lena returns quickly- walking this time- once the milk is poured and respective honey and sugar is added, setting both mugs down on Emily’s nightstand.

She slides one knee onto the bed beside Emily, keeping the other foot on the ground, and pushes her leg gently between her knees.

She’s half on Emily’s lap, either very light or holding almost all of her weight herself, despite the difficult angle to do so. Emily draws her arms around the smaller woman’s waist, leaning back as an invitation to get closer.

“I like the stovetop kind,” Emily murmurs, as Lena swigs further to the side, leaning more on her leg beside Emily on the bed.

“I like you,” Lena says, flirtily, “but this kettle might be a deal-breaker.”

She kisses her, slow and firm, and runs her fingers across the inch of Emily’s hip, peeking out from between her clothes. Lena pulls her leg up further for balance, folding it over Emily’s lap in a half-straddle, and pins her with soft kisses.

Emily’s tempted to turn the tables on Lena and push this gorgeous woman kissing her off unexpectedly so she can go drink her tea, but God, she doesn’t have the willpower. She manages to press her hands up against Lena’s stomach for a second, not yet strong enough to seem like a push. Lena, mistaking the movement for her accelerator pushing into Emily’s chest, responds by settling her hips further down, brushing them against Emily’s. She angles so the front of the device lays against the bed, on Emily’s side. Emily melts at the contact, sliding her hands from Lena’s stomach to around her waist, turning with Lena so she can lie down.

“Our teas are going to go cold,” Emily says, her playful tone going a little breathier than she’d like as Lena kisses her neck; the little involuntary sigh at the end isn’t helping her cause.

“Oh that noise was h-” Lena blushes, burying her face in Emily’s neck and cutting herself off, “tea?”

She slides off the bed once again, face red. Her foot lifts from the floor, rubbing against the bunched up material of her jeans around her calf, stockinged feet slipping off the fabric without doing much to influence it.

Emily holds her hands out for a tea as Lena hands her mug over, a goofy grin on her face. 

“This is fun,” she says, simply, taking a sip.

“Yeah,” Emily laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how you like this fic if you have a sec! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a review if you enjoyed it and would like to read more.


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